Growing Up Malfoy
by K. Ashley
Summary: "Ms. Rowling has made me into a villain - a fact which I do not deny - but I am so much more than a villain... I am a Malfoy."
1. Happy Birthday to Me

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Harry Potter and all related characters, names and terms are the sole property of J.K. Rowling, who is an inspiration to us all…

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*=*=* Growing Up Malfoy *=*=*

You know, I've never been very popular in the eyes of one Ms. Rowling's fans, and to be quite honest it doesn't at all surprise me. After all, my biography, as told by Ms. Rowling, is very much skewed in favor of Harry Potter, whom you all know is the famed wizard who defeated Lord Voldemort and went on to battle the Dark Lord again and again, coming out more heroic with each chapter.

That's all well and good, but I am taking the time now to set the story straight. Not that I care in the slightest what you think of me. No, I am not interested in winning you over, as I am quite content with my own friends and, if I may be utterly candid, have no desire to befriend you, reader, who are a mere Muggle. But I feel as though I have been short-changed in Ms. Rowling's series. She has made me out to be a villain - a fact which I do not deny - but in reality, reader, I am so much more than a villain.

I am a Malfoy…

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I think it is safe to say that every child born with a silver spoon in his mouth would have traded his bottle in a heartbeat to be me, who was born with nothing short of a golden shovel in mine. My family were, and remain, one of the wealthiest and most esteemed wizarding families in the world. The name Malfoy is an old one, and one that has come to demand a certain degree of respect.

My father, Lucius, was already well on his way to becoming one of the most powerful wizards in Britain at the time of my birth. He was an honored member of the Hogwarts governing council, a full-time employee and Vice-Chairman of the Ministry's Treasury department, an ex-pro Quidditch player of the highest esteem, and a valued member of certain other organizations of which I am not at liberty to speak. In short, reader, my father was a very rich and powerful man.

My mother, Narcissa, was just the sort of wife a man like Lucius ought to have. She was young, beautiful, and of a very noble stock. (Her family, the Grungeons of Cresselbrooke, were known for their extremely large vault at Gringotts, as well as their knack for breeding excellent race horses, which is a large part of where their wealth came from.) She was very popular among the other ladies and gentlemen of the wizarding community, and was known far and wide as the best hostess in the East of Britain.

Although my mother and father were by far the most attractive and wealthy couple imaginable, their relationship - if you could call it that - was almost entirely a business transaction. As was the tradition in much of upper-upper-crust Magical society, they wed because they were more or less equally good-looking and rich, and therefore it seemed only right that they should unite in the hopes of creating an even better-looking and more successful generation: namely, me.

Malfoy Manor was turned upside down in preparation for my birth. Lucius saw to it that an entire wing was added just to house me and my servants, as he and Narcissa couldn't be bothered by having a baby in the midst of their nightly soirées. I was born on the particularly icy afternoon of November 28th, and was dubbed Draco Lucius Iridonico Malfoy. Of course, I don't personally remember that momentous day, but according to my sources, I brought with me the coldest spell the region had seen in decades. This fact made Lucius particularly proud, for it is said that when frigid weather accompanies a birth, the child is certain to succeed. Well, obviously.

Not two full days after having popped me out, my mother handed me over to a wet nurse and had me quarantined to my wing of the Manor. She had parties to plan and people to schmooze, and therefore couldn't risk her curvaceous figure in lieu of nourishing me. However, the wet nurse was promptly "let go" when Narcissa realized that I was more attached to her than to my own mother. Thus began an endless series of nurses and nannies, none of them lasting a very long time in the employ of my parents. I cannot honestly say that this was all my parents' fault.

I'll admit, I was a ghastly child. At the age of one year I mastered my first phrase: "You're dismissed," and I learned very quickly that my utterance of these two simple words would promptly rid me of whatever nanny was in place at the moment, so that I might gain a fresh nanny to torment. Not that I didn't get attached to some of them. After all, my real mother had very little time and patience for me. On the rare occasion that I did get to spend time with Narcissa, it was spent in silence on my part, while I watched her file her fingernails and talk with phony animation to the floating faces of her acquaintances in the fireplace. From time to time, I would attempt the very natural act of hugging her, since I, like every other child, _needed_ to feel my mother's warmth. However, no sooner would my toddler arms wrap around her legs than she would swiftly pry away from me and scold me for wrinkling her clothes. I didn't ever feel hurt by this reaction, as I didn't know any different. I merely assumed that this was how every mother greeted her child's affections. I was not fazed. 

Father was hardly ever at home. Being involved in as many organizations as he was, it was not unexpected that he should be away much. When he did return to the Manor, it was an occasion indeed. Mother would take extra time that morning getting ready. She would polish her already plastic-perfect appearance, make sure that the Manor was spotless, and wrench me away from whatever nanny we had at the time. "You must be good for Daddy, Dracums," she would coo at me. This was the only time that Narcissa's motherly instincts, such that they were, shone through.

The gardeners would alert mother of Lucius' approach, and she would gather me into her arms - not saying one word about wrinkling her clothes - and tote me to the foyer, where we would stand anxiously with plastered grins to welcome the man of the house.

And father would enter, swiftly brush his lips against mother's cheek, look me up and down, awkwardly ruffle my hair, and retreat to the sanctity of his library, where he was not to be disturbed. Mother always seemed disappointed, as though she actually expected his homecoming to go some other, more pleasant way. It never did. Narcissa would gaze after his retreating back, then heave an enormous sigh for such a petite woman and head for her salon, the heels of her expensive shoes _clickity-clicking_ on the marble floor. I was left to toddle my way back through the immense Manor to the safety of my wing and my nanny's arms.


	2. The Storm

No matter how brave and unshakeable I am now that I'm grown, when I was a child I was no braver than anyone else. There. I said it. And I won't say it again.

The first storm I witnessed was probably one of the worst I've seen in my entire life so far. Mother and Father were away at an elegant dinner party being held in honor of Lucius' generous monetary contribution to the National Quidditch League. He'd recently handed over no less than thirty thousand Galleons to aid in relocating the Quidditch World Cup that year.

I was in my playroom, a boy of three or four, I can't remember which. It was raining. Very hard, driving rain if I remember correctly. The rain didn't bother me. Growing up in England, I was no stranger to wet weather, so I ignored the pattering of it against my stained glass windows. It was the thunder that got me. Or maybe it was the brilliant, blinding bolt of lightning that immediately preceded the earth-shaking thunderclap.

Either way, it very nearly scared me to death. I'm serious. My three- or four-year-old heart almost ceased to pump then and there, and I jumped so suddenly that I sent the miniature tower I had been busily constructing scattering all over the cold marble floor. I must have screamed, because two seconds later, while the thunder's roar was still lingering on the vibrating air, my nanny, Matilda, burst into the room and scooped me swiftly into her arms.

Matilda had only been in our service for a few months, and me being the stubborn rot that I was, we had still not quite formed an ideal bond. She was a youngish woman, with dark hair and suntanned skin, a round figure and hardly any chin to speak of. Her face just seemed to meld smoothly into her thick neck. (Mother had a knack for hiring homely nannies and housekeepers, in order to lull her own roaring insecurities.)

Still holding my small body tightly against her, Matilda went to the cushioned window seat and nestled herself into it, resting me on her wide lap. I whimpered as another flash illuminated the room, the ear-splitting thunder bringing late tidings of the lightning's approach. I buried my face in her bosom and sobbed. My biggest concern at the moment was not only the fact that it sounded as though the world were collapsing outside, but that my nanny, who was supposed to be my protector, had brought me _closer_ to the window!

I have always been a very intelligent person, being a Malfoy, and I was aware enough of the way things worked to know that it was safer _away_ from the thin panes of colored glass. _Flash. Booooom._

And then, suddenly, I became aware of a very strange sensation. Matilda was rocking back and forth, and she was _stroking my hair._ It startled me at first, and I pulled my face away from her apron to look her in the eyes. She smiled at me and continued to rock me and feather my hair as though it were the most natural thing in the world. I was about to ask her what she thought she was doing, when another monstrous crack of thunder sent me plummeting back to her chest, quivering with innocent fear.

"Shh, shh," Matilda whispered. "You're all right, lad. Matilda won't be lettin' the storm get to ye, Master Malfoy."

And the strangest part of this whole cozy, maternal experience was that I believed her. I believed Matilda with all my young heart when she said she would protect me from the storm. I sank into her motherly arms and for the first time in my life allowed myself to be held. Narcissa had never held me. Lucius had barely ever touched me at all, let alone cradle me on his lap.

That night, as the storm raged on, Matilda and I sat in the window seat and rocked endlessly. "Want to play a bit of a game, Master Malfoy?" she asked me after a while. I sat up and looked at her. I had never played a game with anyone before. 

"What game?" I demanded. Matilda smiled and I noticed that she was missing a tooth.

"Whenever we see a flash of lightning, we'll count," she explained, "until we hear the thunder. Whatever number we get to, that's how many Beans we have to eat." With these words, she retrieved her wand from her apron pocket and summoned a large box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans from her quarters.

_Flash._ "One, two, three, four-" _Boooommm. _I laughed as Matilda poured four beans into my eager palm. And this is how we spent the evening. Counting and eating and laughing. Being from the country, Matilda had many funny stories to tell of swimming in ponds and feeding pigs, and she amused me with these stories until I finally dozed off right there in her lap. For the first time in my life, I had someone who cared for me…

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"Matilda?" I called groggily from my large, soft bed. No answer. "Matilllllda!"

"What is it, Master Malfoy, what is the matter?" snapped a tall and skinny witch, rushing into my immense bedroom while fastening a housecoat over her pajamas. I had never seen her before, and I stared at her open-mouthed for a moment before speaking.

"I had a bad dream," I whimpered. "I want Matilda."

The strange woman frowned deeply and stifled a yawn. "I don't know who you're talking about. It was just a dream. Go back to sleep." With that, she left me alone in the dim light of the early morning.

I found out much later that Narcissa had returned home late in the night and found me and Matilda both asleep on the window seat. In a fit of fake motherly jealousy, Narcissa had immediately dismissed Matilda. I never saw her again.

Don't for a second think that I'm telling you all this, reader, so that you might feel sorry for me. No, the last thing I want is your pity. I am just telling you this so that you will understand why I am the way I am. I know I'm an insufferable, conceited, hard-hearted jerk. I am quite aware of that fact, and I am not apologizing for it. In fact, I happen to _like_ the way I am. I'm successful, I'm handsome, I'm filthy, stinking rich. But I, too, have a past. Just like the Amazing Potter. I have a history of my own…

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(A/N: Sorry such a short chapter. I promise to update soon!) J 


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